


I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: Life in Q Branch [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is Bond, Doctor Who is essential knowledge in Q Branch, Double-O agents break all the things, Gen, Q Branch, Q fits into the weird overlap between geek and hipster, Q in his pyjamas, Q totally has a cat, Shenanigans, massive spoilers for Skyfall, the minions are nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“He lost the biometric gun I helped with,” Oliver laments. “Do you know how much time I spent doing the final calibrations for that? And you know what his report said? It was eaten by a Komodo dragon.” </i>
</p><p><i>Q sighs.</i><br/> </p><p>Q's life in Q Branch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Skyfall two days ago, and knew I had to write fic for it. Since Q is the only character I had a chance of understanding well enough to write from their POV, I give you Q fic.

“I think we should come up with an official 007 compatibility scale,” Martin offers. “You know. Based on how much of our stuff he loses.”

Q isn’t entirely sure how they ended up with Martin. Everyone else found their way to Q Branch through vaguely predictable channels – all of them are computer whizzes or engineering prodigies who started down this path early on, with Q leading the pack as a frighteningly precocious child hacker who first caught official attention at the tender age of nine – but Martin’s career was originally in the diplomatic service. Even by their standards, it was a very short career. Things took a distinct downturn after the Tie In The Soup Incident at Martin’s second diplomatic dinner and never really recovered, and The Youtube Thing was only the nail in the coffin, really. Somehow, from that embarrassing failure of a career ( _MAJOR FAIL_ , thinks the part of Q’s brain that spends too much time on popular websites) Martin managed to stumble into a very promising one in Q Branch of MI6. 

“He lost the biometric gun I helped with,” Oliver laments. “Do you know how much time I spent doing the final calibrations for that? And you know what his report said? _It was eaten by a Komodo dragon_.”

“Well, no, to be fair,” says Anna reasonably – Anna would be reasonable and logical if the Devil were standing in front of her, telling her about his plans to destroy all creation; it’s a valuable trait, but a very irritating one – “he said that the man who _stole_ it was eaten by a Komodo dragon. It’s a bit hard to get something back, after that happens.”

“But why did he _let_ it get stolen?” Oliver doesn’t-quite-wail, stubbornly. “It’s always that he stuffed it in an engine or someone threw it off a cliff, or the time a cat ran off with his transmitter – I mean _a cat_ , really? _Really?_ ”

Q sighs. One of the problems with working with the best people is that they _know_ that they’re the best, and take it very personally when someone doesn’t seem to properly respect their work. Q understands this – he’s lost as many gadgets to Bond’s ridiculous spy-film life as anyone (except for the previous Q, who was mad as a hatter and saw Bond’s habit of losing or destroying his work as a challenge) – but it can make things difficult.

“Sometimes there are circumstances beyond an agent’s control,” he reminds his people. “In 007’s case, frequently.”

“He’s unreal, really,” Sanjit muses. “Like a Modesty Blaise novel.”

Anna beams.

“I love Modesty Blaise!”

“The _point_ ,” Q says firmly, “is that an agent’s objective is to successfully complete their mission, not bring everything back in perfect working order. Lives are at stake.”

He allows a moment of stern silence for his words to sink in, and then adds, “it is bloody annoying though,” because it really is.

All of the double-O agents are careless with the tech they’re given, but 007 is the worst of the lot. Q is convinced Bond lives to take risks: he survives because he also happens to be very good at calculating the odds of those risks, and generally picks the ones with the highest likelihood of success. Sooner or later though he’ll miscalculate, or probability won’t match up with actuality, and Bond will, frankly, be fucked. Q hopes it doesn’t happen for some time yet. Bond treated him with vague, faintly-predatory hostility the first time they met, like a panther investigating an interloper in its territory, but apparently Q passed some kind of test because since then Bond has been (for him) almost friendly, in a reserved, taciturn sort of way. 

They’re not friends or anything, but there’s enough mutual regard there that Q will genuinely be saddened when Bond finally meets his inevitable end. Q doesn’t let it upset him. He’s fairly sure that Bond finds the prospect of dying on-the-job preferable to that of retirement.

“I still think we should have a 007-compatibility rating,” Martin insists, unaware of the morbid turn of Q’s thoughts. “One for _sure, we don’t care what happens to this,_ up to ten, for _oh dear God, do not let 007 near this. Ever._ ”

“Like that Aston Martin DB5 Boothroyd designed back in the 60s, I heard it got all shot up–” Sanjit starts to agree unthinkingly, and then they all remember how that affair ended and fall into a heavy silence.

“Come on,” says Q briskly after a second, “back to work.”

The atmosphere is a little subdued, after that. Everyone wishes that the car had been enough to save M’s life, but at least Bond came out alive. That’s something, Q thinks, even if it doesn’t make him feel any better about what happened to M.

* * *

On Tuesday, Q checks his email to find an e-card that Sanjit has sent to all of Q Branch. He opens it.

_ Nothing ruins a beautiful summer day like a hipster wearing a winter hat,  _ it says, accompanied by an illustration of a man wearing a beanie that bears a strong resemblance to the one Q wore several haircuts and about four months ago, before he found a more competent hairdresser. Just in case anyone missed the point, Sanjit has also sent out an email with the subject header _Re: ecard_ and an attached CCTV still of Q wearing said beanie.

_ Ha ha _ Q emails back flatly, and Sanjit spends the next fifteen minutes trying to kill all the pop-up ads suddenly appearing on his computer. Q has a sense of humour, just not when the joke pertains to him. Besides, he’d been hoping everyone would forget about the hat, and also the haircut it was hiding. Revenge was inescapable.

Over the course of the day several hundred people attempt to hack MI6’s systems, but only half a dozen of them show any kind of real skill; these are the ones Q plays with for a while before brutally shutting them down. One hacker somewhere in North America is almost in (or so they think) before their power is abruptly cut off: once they attempt to have it re-connected they’ll also discover that their bank account has been emptied, and that all the emails to their girlfriend have been forwarded to their wife, who’s away on a business trip. It’s rather sadistic of him, Q privately admits, but that’s what you get for trying to hack into MI6 when you’re not good enough, isn’t it? It’s not an officially sanctioned response to attempted security breaches, but people tend to turn a blind eye to what Q does in the course of his job as long as he does it. 

There’s a meeting of all the department heads mid-afternoon, which Q is sadly obliged to attend. He’s wearing a suit today – Q is smart enough to know that however talented he is, people are still going to judge him for his appearance – but there’s not much he can do about the fact that his hair has a perpetually rumpled look, and that next to all the other department heads he appears absurdly youthful. Eve tells him that the hipster glasses don’t help, but sod that – Q has to draw a line _somewhere_. 

Q is phenomenally bored during the meeting, periodically flicking his fingers across his smartphone screen to check how things are going elsewhere. He has to keep up at least a pretence of paying attention, however, unless he wants someone starting in on his ability to run a department again. Last time it was that arse Tallant making a comment about the attention spans of the MTV generation: in response, Q had pointed out that as the ‘MTV generation’ were all teenagers or young adults during the early years of MTV – that is, the 1980s – he was born at _least_ fifteen years too late to be part of it, as most of the MTV generation were currently going through their midlife crises, and he considered himself to be more part of the Nintendo generation. 

Tallant hadn’t taken the rejoinder well.

Q can remember, back in high school, being stuck in a meeting between his mother and the school headmaster about Q’s ‘behavioural issues.’ His Mum and the principal had entered into a heated discussion while ignoring Q completely; while no one was paying attention Q had built a miniature catapult mostly out of a spoon, a broken pencil, several paperclips and a large rubber band he happened to have in his pocket, and used it to launch a pound coin across the room and into the vase of flowers on the headmaster’s desk.

Q is too mature and adult to do that sort of thing now, but the urge is still very much there.

He starts up a silent game of _Angry Birds_ instead, glancing up from his phone every few seconds to maintain the illusion of attentiveness.

* * *

For Christmas this year, Q arranges a small, unofficial gathering for himself and his personal minions to take place down in Q Branch, instead of attending the main MI6 Christmas party. Last year, when he was still the previous Quartermaster’s assistant, he was forced to dress up and attend, and found the entire experience singularly distasteful (the idiot who pretended to coo over how adorable Q was and wasn’t it sad that they were letting _children_ into MI6, now, is still plagued by a mysterious virus that plays Rebecca Black’s _Friday_ every time he logs onto a computer). None of his assistants are particularly fond of small talk with judgemental strangers and mingling with large crowds either, so instead Q brings his lovingly-maintained SNES console into the office and hooks it up to the main monitor, and he and the minions play _Super Mario Bros,_ watch youtube clips and mix cheap cocktails until later, when Martin breaks out the _Doctor Who_ series 3 DVD box set.

It turns out that Anna has knitted them all scarves and mittens and hats and things. For Q, Anna has knitted the Seventh Doctor’s vest with all the question marks. Q immediately pulls off his jumper (blue, v-necked) and puts the vest on instead. It fits perfectly, he notes, and thanks her. Out of all of Anna's gifts, his is the most complex: Sanjit has been given a pair of gloves decorated with small TARDISes, Martin has a green scarf that suits him far better than the one he usually wears, and Oliver is wearing the most ridiculous, garishly-orange-and-yellow hat Q has ever seen. There are ear flaps.

“It’s from _Firefly_ ,” Oliver says defensively, when Q’s expression of _my, what a hideous hat_ registers with him. “I know it’s ugly, okay?”

Q doesn’t say anything, but he allows himself to eloquently radiate judgemental feelings as Sanjit and Martin drag in the sofa from the break room and put it in front of the main monitor screen.

Q and his minions are watching the Doctor perform a ridiculous dance to expel radiation into his shoe when a voice asks,

“Is this _Doctor Who_?”

As one they turn to see Bond, standing behind them in an even fancier tuxedo than usual, looking vaguely bemused at their version of Christmas festivities.

“It is,” Q replies, wondering what on earth Bond is doing down here in the basement, when the swanky party upstairs is still in full swing.

“I didn’t get to see much of this series,” Bond comments. “I was in Lisbon. Then Prague.”

“You watch _Doctor Who_?” Martin pipes up, beating Oliver to it and speaking what all of them are thinking; until now, Q wasn’t entirely sure Bond even knew what a TV _was_.

Bond shrugs, his lips quirking up into that almost-invisible smile he tends to use when he’s not smiling for someone else’s benefit.

“Sometimes,” is all he says. Then: “Do you mind if I join you?”

Everyone stares at him; for a minute no one moves, shocked to the core that _007_ wants to hang out with them and watch _Doctor Who_. Then, spurred into action by being repeatedly prodded by Q’s pointy toes (he took his shoes off half an hour ago) Oliver shuffles sideways on the sofa, forcing Sanjit to slide down onto the floor, leaving just enough room for one person to sit uncomfortably at the end of the sofa.

Bond thanks them politely, and settles down in the empty space (looking perfectly comfortable, as though he isn’t squished in between the sofa arm and Oliver) and waits for Q to un-pause the DVD. (Of course Q has the remote. Quartermaster’s privilege.)

Q sets the DVD playing again, and for the first ten minutes or so everyone sends Bond awkward glances, wondering _what he’s doing here,_ but Bond seems completely absorbed in what’s happening on-screen and one by one everyone is drawn back into the episode instead of the novelty of suited double-O agents on their sofa.

By the time _Last of the Time Lords_ finishes, it’s the early hours of the morning, Oliver has joined Sanjit on the floor and is snoring softly, Anna has commandeered the SNES to play it at her desk, and Bond is sprawled an arms-length away from Q on the sofa.

Q is gratified to notice that Bond looks less than satisfied by the ending.

“The resolution was ridiculously contrived, wasn’t it?” he offers quietly. He doesn’t want to wake Sanjit or Oliver.

“Very,” Bond agrees, and Q smiles at him. He never would have thought that he and 007 would have much in common, yet here they are, apparently bonding over similar opinions on _Doctor Who_.

“Excuse me while I deal with these two,” Q says, standing and working all the kinks out of his spine as he nods at his sleeping subordinates.

“Are you going to move them?” Bond asks curiously.

Q shakes his head, raising an eyebrow: honestly, does he _look_ like he can carry two grown men, skinny though they may be?

“No, I’m afraid they’ll simply have to live with whatever sleeping on a cold floor does to their spines,” Q replies. “We do, however, have pillows and some duvets in a cupboard.”

Bond watches as Q collects the pillows and duvets (one has a picture of an exploding TARDIS on it, while the other bears the Aperture Science logo) and puts pillows under heads and duvets around sleeping bodies.

When Q looks up again, Bond is gone.

* * *

Q always takes care to be relatively well-dressed and meticulously organised while at work, but at home, wearing track pants and a t-shirt with Ke$ha blaring from his iPod dock speakers, his standards are more relaxed. Books and tablets tend to be scattered across all available surfaces, half-consumed bowls of cereal stand forgotten in strange places, and Q is just as likely to be wearing pyjamas as actual clothes. After all, it’s not like anyone else is here to see him.

These days – particularly since the fucking mess their saboteur left of MI6’s servers and computers during his rampage against the previous M – Q doesn’t get to spend as much time as he would like at home. Most of the time he is here he spends in his wonderful, comfortable bed, offsetting his accrued sleep-debt in a way he can’t by just catching a few hours on a sofa. Still, he works from home whenever possible, using his own (but far better) equivalent of Skype to relay instructions to the minions _et al._

Q is telling off his cat for drinking milk out of an abandoned bowl of cereal again (most people are unaware that most cats are actually lactose intolerant and can't properly digest milk, even if they like it, but Q is not one of those people) when 007 rings to complain about a gadget malfunctioning explosively. 

Schmendrick takes advantage of Q’s distraction to go back to drinking milk out of the bowl of cereal.

“ _No_ , Schmendrick,” Q scolds sternly, and Bond’s flow of terse words pauses.

“Q.”

“Yes, sorry, my cat was drinking milk out of a bowl of cereal I left on the coffee table yesterday,” Q explains, and there’s another pause.

“Yesterday?” Bond repeats, bemused and a little amused.

“I am a busy man with many demands on my time,” Q says stiffly, “sometimes I’m not given the opportunity to finish what I’m doing.” He knows Bond is silently laughing at him. He can picture it in his head, the way the coldness in Bond’s eyes flickers slightly to make way for an emotion, and the little almost-smile.

“Do you regularly forget bowls of cereal?” Bond asks.

Q doesn’t tell him that often he only really notices once the milk goes off and makes his flat smell vile.

“Shut up. Tell me about when the briefcase exploded. Are you certain you didn’t break the connection?” Q demands, at the same time sending Anna a message saying _The exploding briefcase blew up without activation. We will be having words._

“Positive,” Bond says, very dryly.

“Right,” says Q. “Well, I’ll look into it, make sure it doesn’t happen again. Just leave the briefcase with Q Branch next time you get in.”

Q expects Bond to hang up then, but he doesn’t.

“I’m curious,” the agent says instead. “Are you wearing pyjamas right now?”

Q ends the call.

* * *

When Q gets in to work, he finds someone has stuck a side-on headshot of himself and one of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes to the wall next to the central doorway, and a post-it with arrows pointing to both pictures saying _Observe!_ There’s also a smiley-face.

Q sighs and tears the pictures down. It’s hard to find a stylish haircut for men with ridiculously unruly hair like his. He was hoping no one would notice that his haircut is somewhat similar to Sherlock Holmes’. Like the beanie and the Haircut Which Must Not Be Named, he knows no one’s going to let this go.

It’s a good thing he has so much blackmail material.

* * *

In mid-January a disenchanted citizen starts planting bombs all over London, and Q is at the centre of the efforts to work out how to stop them and where they’re likely to strike next. Q goes thirty-six hours without even a catnap on the sofa downstairs, and forgets to eat in his determination to find the bloody bastard responsible.

Once they finally take out the homicidal lunatic, Q is tired and wired-up enough that he couldn’t possibly sleep, despite the haziness of sleep deprivation that’s closing in around the edges of his vision.

“Come on,” says Eve, and steers him out of the building and down the street to the café where everyone at MI6 buys coffee. Even sits Q down at a table in the corner and buys him a gourmet lamb-and-vegetable pie (but no tea or coffee) and takes away his phone _and_ his tablet while she makes him eat it.

Q wants to go home and go to sleep, in his nice soft bed with Schmendrick curling up on his chest, but knows that all he would end up doing is staring at the ceiling. He’s still too strung-out for slumber, tense with stress and riding high on adrenaline and more cups of tea and awful coffee than he was able to keep count of in the chaos.

“I couldn’t possibly sleep right now.”

Eve pats his arm.

“I know but you couldn’t stay there,” she tells him. “You started quoting _Paradise Lost_. It was scaring the minions.”

When he thinks about it, Q vaguely remembers going a rant involving the ‘ _better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n_ ’ bit and how anyone with brains should know that freedom is a more important motivator than power, but he can’t for the life of him remember _why_. His brain is too blurred.

He eats his pie. It’s good.

“Go home,” says Eve kindly. “You can’t do any good here, not in this state. Go home, read a book, play music, something – whatever it takes for you to wind down and get some sleep. We can carry on without you for a little while, now the crisis is over.”

“Lies,” says Q, “you always needs me,” but once he’s finished his pie he allows Eve to propel him into a taxi and gives the driver the address for his flat.

Schmendrick greets him with a welcoming chirp – there’s enough food and water in the cat feeder in the kitchen to last a couple of weeks, but Schmendrick gets lonely if he’s left alone for more than about twelve hours – and after giving the cat a quick pat Q goes and has a shower.

He feels himself relaxing under the warm water, the only sound the hiss of the spray and the gentle rumble of the air circulation fan in the ceiling.

When he gets out Q wanders out in a towel and changes into his pyjamas. Schmendrick trots over and leaps up onto the bed as Q pushes back the covers. His iPod dock is on the bedside table, and Q goes through albums until he settles on _21_ , and sets it playing at a very low volume.

He falls asleep to Adele singing about setting fire to the rain, Schmendrick vibrating on his chest, warm and heavy and immensely comforting.

* * *

On Friday, his Mum rings to find out how he’s doing, and asks him if he’s still enjoying his work as much as ever (not that she knows what he _really_ does, of course).

“You have no idea how much,” says Q, and means every word.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are curious, a photo of the Seventh Doctor's vest can be found at [this page](http://wittylittleknitter.com/7th-doctors-sweater-vest/). For the hideous hat Oliver was given for Christmas, just type 'Firefly Jayne's ugly hat' into Google Image search.


End file.
